


The Right Touch

by Sestra_Prior



Category: Sword at Sunset - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7357258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sestra_Prior/pseuds/Sestra_Prior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by the Rosemary Sutcliff book "Sword at Sunset", which relates a version of the story of King Arthur.  It's far less romantic/magical than most Arthur stories, but instead makes one feel that if Arthur was a real character, then he would have been just like RS's Arthur.  The quote at the beginning of the story is taken straight from the book - they are Artos' words to Bedwyr.</p>
<p>Beta: The Incomparable RaeWhit</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Right Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Rosemary Sutcliff book "Sword at Sunset", which relates a version of the story of King Arthur. It's far less romantic/magical than most Arthur stories, but instead makes one feel that if Arthur was a real character, then he would have been just like RS's Arthur. The quote at the beginning of the story is taken straight from the book - they are Artos' words to Bedwyr.
> 
> Beta: The Incomparable RaeWhit

“I could have cried out to him…by the forbidden love names that are not used between men; I could have flung my arms around his shoulders…” Sword at Sunset by Rosemary Sutcliff.

 

It had been an easy ride that day. Over hills and through valleys that basked in the late summer sunshine. The air was the clear, fresh of September, and both horses and men breathed it in deep, as refreshing as a draft of cool beer on a hot day.

We made camp by a small lake, on short, sheep-cropped grass, and the men settled around camp fires with an air of contentment; a feeling that all was right with the world.

We’d had a hard summer, but now at the end of it we could look back with satisfaction at a job well done. The Sea Wolves had been driven before us as chaff in the wind and we had been victorious. In a few more weeks we would arrive in Deva, and bed down for the winter.

Now, however, I was happy to lie on my back by the camp fire, well fed, and staring up at the stars that burned like Beltane fires in the sky above me.

Sleep should have come easily; there was naught to disturb or threaten here, but the more I reached for it, the more it eluded me, and thus it was that I was still awake, staring into the darkness, when the last quiet murmuring of the men died away, and all around me, aside from the night watch, slept.

I began to feel congested, as if my skin and bones were unable to contain what lay within. I tried to refrain from fidgeting; Bedwyr lay to my one side, Avilla to my other, and I was loathe to disturb them from their well-earned rest. But the more I tried to settle, the worse the feeling became. I wasn’t that I felt in danger—had I done so, I should have had no compunction about getting up and seeking out the source of my anxiety. No, it was something indefinable, but when my manhood began to swell, I was given some clue as to what ailed me.

It had been so long since I had felt the desire for sex thrum through my veins, that I had simply not recognised the feeling for what it was. Not since Ygerna had my loins surged with the natural feelings of men. Not even Guenhumara, whom I loved, had been able to cause my manhood to quicken as it should. I had been ruined, spoiled, by the woman who had lured me into her bed and then, once the deed had been done, delivered the news that she was my half sister with a bitter, gloating hatred.

Now, here beneath the wide, dark sky, looked down on by the glittering stars, my men asleep around me, now my manhood had risen and I felt the need for release. I could have cried for the waste of it. How many times had I lain at Guenhumara’s side and cursed my body for failing me? How many times had I had to turn from her caresses when my manhood, instead of rising to salute her, had curled limply on my thigh, refusing to waken?

It was in me to ignore my need. To punish, as it were, my body for coming alive now, when it had so abjectly failed to do so in the past when its awakening would have been most welcome. But the need within me grew and grew until I knew I would have no rest until I had quenched the fire that raged in my belly. I rolled to my side, undid the laces on my trousers, and slipped my hand inside.

My manhood felt odd. So long had it been a soft and pliable creature, that this hard, thrusting beast was a stranger to me. But although it had been an age since I’d had to bring myself relief, some things are never forgotten, and my hand soon remembered the once familiar rhythm that brings release.

That should have brought release. For no matter how I worked that column of flesh, my release failed to come, and I could not quell a muted groan of frustration.

Behind me, Bedwyr stirred, and I stilled my hand. There was no shame in a man seeing to his needs, but I had begun to wonder if there was any point in continuing to try and bring about that which seemed determined not to happen. 

Then Bedwyr’s body pressed to my back, and his voice was warm and low by my ear. “Let me.”

For a heartbeat I did not understand what he meant, then his hand crept beneath my clothing, and slid over my bare stomach. Words of protest formed in my mouth, but they were not spoken, for Bedwyr had taken my manhood in his hand, and the protest was replaced by a low moan of need. Bedwyr’s grip was as knowing and sure as only another man’s can be, and he worked me with a deftness of touch that had me arching into his grip.

My head fell back on his shoulder as Bedwyr’s hand caressed me. It was his sword hand, and the calluses on his palm rubbed against my sensitive flesh, so very different from a woman’s touch, but so very right, and desire stabbed into my groin like a knife blade.

He managed what I had not: my release sprang on me like a ravening wolf, savage in its intensity, and I emptied myself in gout after gout over the hand that held me so surely, so safely, shaking from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. It was then that I felt the feather-soft brush of lips against the nape of my neck and knew—knew with a wonder that I had not realised this thing before—that for Bedwyr this was more than a favour for a friend in need. Bedwyr loved me. Loved me not just as a friend, but in the same way that Gault and Levin loved each other. And the import of that shook me.

He had started to move away from me, but as Bedwyr withdrew his hand, I grasped it and would not let him go.

“Artos?” he said softly, a question in his voice.

Keeping his arm about me, I rolled to face him. Rolled to face the man I knew better than any other, and yet had not known until now that he loved me in the way that he did. His face wore a mask of concern, lit by the amber-red glow from the smouldering fire. I gazed upon it; his beautiful-ugly face that was as familiar to me as my own, and recalled all the times we had looked at each other as if no other in the world existed; remembered all the times we had shared thoughts without a word; all the times we had reached out to touch for the simple reason of reassurance that the other was near.

Then I closed the narrow gap between us and pressed my lips to his, snaking my hand down his body…only to find a soft, spent beast where I had expected his hard flesh.

Bedwyr’s lips twisted in a wry, almost apologetic smile. “Too late,” he said softly.

I gave him a wondering look, and then replied with a smile of my own, “Well, then, next time.” And then, with the camp asleep around us, we made promises with our eyes, and no speech was necessary.


End file.
